


Dean Smith Goes to War

by Smilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2011, Drabble Series, Episode: It's a Terrible Life, Ficlet, Gen, Season: four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2011-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dreams are nothing but the stain of sweat on your t-shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean Smith Goes to War

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted [here](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/241496.html).]

Late that night, you finally shut your laptop closed. Turning off your brain proves way more difficult, still caught as you are in numbers and spread-sheets and increases in productivity, the position of items in your to-do-list for tomorrow. The afterimage of the flow-chart you've been studying blinks gray behind your closed eyelids until it morphs into a shapeless, colorless splatter. You toss and turn in your bed for a long time, sheets and coverlet heavy and too warm. Fed-up, you throw them away and shuffle to the bathroom, relishing the shock of cold under your bare feet. You turn on the light above the sink and grimace at your image in the mirror: too pale skin and red-rimmed eyes like you haven’t slept in years, shadows deep around them and on your jaw like you're seventy and not just thirty and fit and ready to take on the world. You lick your lips and find them sore and hard-bitten and you shake your head disgusted at yourself, at that childish, nervous habit you’ve never grown out of. The water, when you drink straight from the sink, tastes of rust and reminds you of blood and you spit it out and wish you still had beer in your apartment – or maybe something stronger – so you could wipe the taste away. You take a piss and turn off the light and ignore how the slices of light coming from the street look like the glint off a blade. You fall asleep, finally, and you dream a stretch of road that goes straight through the horizon, the line in the middle not yellow but bright red. You dream the bassline of a song you don’t know thumping through your body, a mechanical hum, a soothing lullaby. You dream a face with missing features and eyes like hot coals. The comforting shape of the knife on your palm and the blood-stained hand on your shoulder that restrains and comforts - thin barriers between you and the pain. You dream a familiar voice calling your name and screams and screams and screams. That you know are coming from your mouth.

In the morning, the dreams are nothing but the stain of sweat on your t-shirt and the tangled mess of the bedclothes that trap your legs. You shower and shave and wear your perfectly ironed shirt, ignoring how it stretches too tight over your arms and shoulders like a straight-jacket.  
\--


End file.
